


Autopsy

by Siubhan



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-16
Updated: 2017-03-16
Packaged: 2018-10-06 02:54:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10323968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siubhan/pseuds/Siubhan
Summary: Four Bay city murders brings pressure on the team and an Autopsy on one of the victims gets Hutch down.





	

Sunday;

 

The striped tomato gradually moved over the driveway to the garage, stopped in front of the Detective’s chalet. Agonizingly slowly, Starsky turned off the ignition. Leaned his head against the window, totally wiped out. For a few minutes he stayed in that position, rolled down the window, the sweltering heat that had hit the city made him languid. The air on his face cooled him off a litlle.

 

It was the fourth time today that a call came through to investigate a crime, another one-eight-seven, it was absurd. Within ninety-six hours, four bodies, all woman, stabbed to death. The last corpse found by chance, it could have been lying there for weeks in the uninhabitable condemned house if the housing inspection hadn’t done a spot check that morning to see if there was immediate danger of collapse.

 

His hand reached to the handle to close the window, he got out, totally drained by all Dobey’s orders.

The four murders were a major infringement of the normal twelve to fourteen hour shift.

The whole department of homicide was faced with sleep deprivation, imposed by the pressure. The squad room under Dobey’s authority experienced the most annoyance, driven by an unstoppable Commissioner. Which in turn was modified by the Major of Los Angeles. The newspapers sold out in hours, it began to rule the street, panic and fear by the citizens.

 

Starsky checked his mailbox: an imported letter had been delivered while he was out. He grabbed the big envelope and hoisted himself up the outside stairs to the front door.

He lingered on the threshold, looking for the light switch along the wall, found the switch and lit up his safe harbour.

Yet, he wasn’t fully able to think clearly, but the knowledge that he might hold the clue of the murders in his hand made him continue.

 

Ignoring fatigue, with the investigation of the day still fresh in his memory it would be a waste of time to take no notice of it; because it would cost him tomorrow morning extra hours to rerecord everything.

He walked directly to his kitchen and tossed the envelope on his table, started to make the strongest coffee ever in his whole life, praying that his stomach would accept the caffeine.

 

Maybe he could take a quick shower, ‘no way boy, the feel of pyjamas will knock you out’.

 

He decided not to, his tired body didn’t have enough energy left to get back into his clothes. He opened the envelope and arranged the papers. With the largest coffee cup he could find he sat down at the table. Trying not to look at the alluring bedroom.

The coffee helped, although the liquid stirred a nausea that he had to suppress. He rubbed his stomach, took several deep breaths before he sorted the documents. He bowed his head, over the immense task. The killings showed a clear match, the Modus Operandi:

 

Victims: late thirties – firm posture – tinted skin (latino).

Weapon: knife wounds – kitchen knife???

Wounds: Same approach – Left of the body – torn aorta – severe internal bleeding.

Other features: No sex – No rape – items found in vagina, two spoons and a piston of a syringe.

Profile offender: Right-handed – Age 25? (The desire to hide object in genitals was frequently seen by young offenders) – Got kicks from victim’ fear. 

 

Starsky put aside the sheets, took the photographs. Concentrating on the environment of the martyred woman. With short sentences he wrote his findings down.

 

Victim one; Found: ………Sand – leaves – ferns – moss. Purse grubby – Five dollar bill – bus ticket – a smuged print of a teenager.

Victim two; Found……..Hotel room – the conventional interior of a sterile room, meaningless. – medicine jar – small shelf with personal belongings – travel alarm clock. – framed snapshot of a figure. Male, female?? – wristwatch – ring.

 

‘The sadist, who ended her life, wasn’t out for robbery.

 

Victim three; Found…….Various objects of a prostitute.- Photo of a teenager, girl – Old magazines – empty cardboard boxes.

 

Victim four; Found……. Handbag – driving license – make up – pictures – pen – calendar – credit card – empty liquor bottles, dirty – a stack of old newspapers – rags – (probably of the homeless)

 

His eyes started to burn brutally, he awarded them with a blissful feeling by putting his warm hand palms against them. He blew his cheeks, counted to ten, let the light come back. The body of today in the slum dwelling was probably the first victim of the murderer. An autopsy should verify that.

 

Amongst the mess Hutch had seen her expensive handbag. In the precious leather wallet they had found her papers. The drivers licence in name of Alison Carter. By reading the family name, immediately a bell started ringing in Starsky’s mind, the last name not unknown, he had seen it somewhere on the information board of the Police Department.

 

Hutch had come up with the answer when he looked at the pictures in her purse.

Her name in bold letters, which indicated priority, stood on the list of missing persons.

 

Alison Carter came from a rich family was missing since six days. She didn’t come home that night when she came from her job in a boutique on Broadway.

 

A second blow to her husband and family who got the message this afternoon that she was found, murdered. Automatically, he took the cup of coffee, brought it towards his mouth, saw that it was empty.

 

“Go to bed Dave”, he said in the quite dim surroundings, he drifted to his bedroom fully dressed, without thinking about a shower he sank on the bed. Within two minutes he was sound asleep.

 

 

Monday

“Lets go”, with his fingertips Starsky forced his partner into the room. Wherever Hutch attended an autopsy, they all were the same, window- free, quiet and morbid. Walls, floors dirty and gloomy due to the years of spilled bodily substances.

The smell of raw flesh wandered between the stainless steal tables and the jars filled with formalin.

 

A suffocating smell hit him in the face, the combination of blood and formalin, it put him off. He never had problems with the smell of a corpse, but when he stepped over the threshold of an autopsy room his sense of smell didn’t get numb.

 

Dr. Ginny Simpson and her assistants stood around the metal plate, with its system of constantly flowing of water to let the liquids disappear through the drain.

A rubber rod lay under Alison Carter’s back, bringing the chest up, her arms and head fell back.

The pathologist used a scalpel, started the Y incision. It ran from both shoulders down to the pubic bone. She drew the final short notch, peeled of the skin and muscles, the chest exposed.

With the electrical saw she went through the bones, snapped the now separated parts of the breast to the side of the lifeless little body.

By removing the abdominal muscles, the internal organs came in view, immediately there was that familiar smell, of a butcher shop where the meat was cut.

 

Hutch blinked several times, looking sideways at his friend who started to whisper in his ear. “I’m hungry”.

 

“Starsk, for god’s sake, please”, he hissed.

 

Just the thought of Starsky eating a pizza during the dissection of the body made him sick. He started to shake of disgust. He tried to focus on Dr. Simpson, who weighed each organ and put her findings on tape, throughout the autopsy every movement would be recorded.

 

The only thing that was left was the brain. It was the most sickening part of the autopsy for Hutch. The carving knife made a groove in the flesh, from ear to ear. The pathologist moved the scalp away from the woman’s face. Hutch started to loose his courage, the nausea increased.

He started to swallow hard.

 

Starsky watched his friend, well aware of Hutch’s weakness, although he always managed to pull through, but this time it seemed it went wrong; Starsky saw his Adams Apple moving.

 

The drill started to expose the skull, the sound louder than a dentist’s drill. A new smell rose from the table, met him, the high sawing sound of the sharpening tool combined with the stench of burnt bone was too much for his friend.

 

“Excuse us Doc, be back in a minute”, with two steps Starsky pulled the pale Hutch away from the sight of the body.

 

Ginny Simpson frowned, looked from behind her goggles at the two sergeants. She understood, Detective Hutchinson pulled through well these last past days.

 

Starsky closed the door, placed Hutch on one of the benches at the exit of the room, they weren’t put there for nothing. He pushed the blond head down between the long legs. Hutch warded him off, “it’s okay”, his voice was shocked.

“Stop being the macho Hutch, I don’t want you to have a fainting fit”.

“I never lost consciousness during an autopsy and I don’t intend to do it now”, he trembled, stretch his spine, finding support against the back.

 

“Want me to bring you a cup of coffee”, with concern Starsky rubbed his friend’s shoulder.

“If I drink that I’ll throw up”, Hutch his failed smile accompanied his words, “you better get back inside”, he hit the protective hand off his collarbone.

“You sure, you okay on your own”.

“Yeah ma, go on you wouldn’t want to miss the best part do you”.

Starsky hesitated, silently he pilled at his shirt. “Starsk, I’m fine, go on”. For the second time the dark cop entered the room.

 

Dr. Simpson’s assistant handled hammer and chisel to open the skull. The sound was like tearing apart two half pieces of fruit. The Dura, the membrane that covered the brain was the only thing that was in the way.

 

Ginny worked quickly – she pushed it aside, spooned the brain out and put it in the formalin.

After several day’s, the brain would stiffen and could easily cut in very thin slices. There was nothing left of Alison Carter, she lay there with her open chest and completely emptied stomach. Like a canoe boat. Her family wouldn’t get to see this sight, the assistant started to close the woman up, expertly.

 

The tape recorder gave a soft click. The post mortem was completed. Dr. Simpsons’s job was finished until the laboratory prepared the evidence for further investigation.

The pathologist signed Detective Starsky to come with her into the wash room. She threw her protecting clothing in the garbage bag, began to shrub thoroughly. In the meantime she informed David Starsky about some details.

 

 

“She’s been dead for five day’s at least, must be the first murder victim. I found a similar stab wound as the other woman had, this time he (let’s presume the killer is a him) put a wooden kitchen utensil in her vagina, guy must be truly wacky, hope you catch that creep soon”.

 

“So do we Doc”. Ginny looked up, “by the way how’s your partner doing”, unabashedly she began washing her abdomen. Not waiting for an answer she continued, “as he doesn’t tell me as usual but I know it constantly reminds him of his girlfriend’s violent death”.

 

Starsky rocked back on his heels, while sliding on a brown spot on the floor, embarrassed for words. The doctor wasn’t bashful, she took advantage of the cop’s reticence, “he’s strong your friend, a man of steel, I could never do a post-mortem on family”, she dried her body.

 

“Don’t even want to watch one, I did that autopsy on her you know”, her eyes came to rest on the Detective, whom she had known for years. “Tried to talk him out of his choice, with no luck, he insisted on being in the room when I opened her up”.

 

Starsky remembered it like it was yesterday, that awful day.

“Oh no”, the moan was soft, a thought spoken out loud, it suddenly came into his mind, his blood began to flow faster. It was the workload of the last time that he hadn’t dwellt on the fact that Abby was murdered two weeks after she and Hutch split up, exactly a year ago.

 

It made his flesh creep. Today was the twenty-seventh, no wonder that Hutch almost fainted. Quickly he thanked the doctor, ran out of the room. Puzzle pieces fell into place, now he understood his friend’s behavior, the cause of their quarrels. The pain that flooded him, the fond memories of Abby, which gave way to grief.

 

Starsky found a deserted bench, an empty hall, panic hit him, running through the hallways he left the morgue.

He found Hutch, sitting on his bonnet, drooping shoulders, chin on his chest, sunglasses protecting the upper half of his face.

“Oh Hutch”, he hopped up next to him on the car, “why didn’t you remind me, you must be going trough hell”, his touch gave his friend an emotional vibration. Starsky looked sideways at Hutch, saw moisture eyes.

Tension around the mouth and throat were a manifestation of a desperate attempt not to give in to his weakness.

 

Starsky pulled his handkerchief from his pocket, placed it in his friend’s hand, “just let it go Hutch”. His pal shook his head, pressed his lips firmly together, resumed his control. He heaved the oxygen in.

The glasses disappeared from his nose. He dabbed his eyes and blew his nose. Being unable to comfort his friend made Starsky want to cry.

“You don’t have to go back to the precinct Hutch, I’ll clear it with Dobey, come on I’ll take you home”, he put pressure on Hutch his thigh, grabbed him by the elbow, Hutch followed willingly.

 

“Will you stop at the liquor store”, it was the only sound Hutch made during the twenty-minute ride. He pointed to the liquor store two blocks away from his house.

 

“So you gonna get drunk heh”, Starsky slowed down, parked at a free spot. “You want me to get it”. Hutch emptied his lungs, “please Starsk”, his head throbbed back.

“What you want”, Starsky got out, looked through the open window.

“Brandy”.

“One bottle enough for you”.

There was a chuckle from Hutch his throat, “one will do”.

For the blond cop, the minutes that his friend was in the store felt like a century. He longed for his familiar surroundings, to numb his brain with the stuff. Nervously he tapped his fingers on the roof, relieved to see the errand-boy. Starsky stepped back into the Torino, handed over the paper bag with the brandy, started the engine, in no time he turned on to Washington Place, where he stopped in front of Hutch’s apartment.

 

“Don’t forget to eat partner, I’ll come over after I’ve finished the rapports”. Hutch said nothing, he gave a barely perceptible nod, tired he stepped out of the car. Starsky looked worried. Like a bent old sick man the ‘golden boy’ disappeared through the front door.


End file.
